A diary of small observations of home and the many lives I share it with

Menu

Love It

It’s been far too long since I posted anything on this blog. Been a very demanding year on far too many fronts. But here is a little something I wrote around 1am the other night. I think I need to keep on reading this, reminding myself over and over of the ‘practice’ of what i’m spontaneously calling ‘radical acceptance’. Which is what life/love is and does, really, left to its own devices. Deep gratitude goes to my friends Isaac and Meike http://www.isaacshapiro.org/, for the support to see all this a little more clearly over the past 10 years or so. ❤

Love it. Love this life. Love the worries, love the pain, love the resistance – so futile – love the love.
Love the shove, the strife, the living of this life … the struggle, the struggle, the struggle … the float … the resilience
The wounds
The picked scabs, the drifting bones, the old locked doors cracking open, the forgotten child you were, are, the smell of the earth, grass, leaves, the gritty, crystally dirt under the leaves, the little critters jumping and twitching there like stars
Love this life. Love THIS life. THIS life. Not that life or their life or her life, all the ones you’re not living. Love THIS one.
THIS one.
This one has baby chickens in it and mother chooks who know exactly what to do, with their strong legs and their soft clucks and their sharp eyes and their deep, safe breasts.
This one has blue skies and racing clouds. This one has tall trees. Magpies. Many kinds of frogs. It has moonlight. And sunshine, warm on your weary back.
It has tea, and ginger and lemons.
It has milk from angelic cows.
It has children and dogs and kind old people. And friends.
It has wisdom. Ineffable wisdom.
It has incense and candles and bowls full of water. It has smiling old monks from mountainous kingdoms. It has colourful flags flapping in soft breezes.
It has strong winds.
It has wild waves.
It has dust storms and bushfires and heat waves and black frosts.
Love it. Love it all. Love it when it hurts and slaps. Love it when it burns and breaks. Love it when it is tender. It is always tender, beneath the skin. Beneath the surface, where everything meets, merges, is not separate.
Love it. Love the fear, the discomfort, the urge to retreat, to hide, to shrink away from the enormity.
Love the microscopic ways it is here with you, in you, as you, always.
It never fails you. Even when you die, it will be with you, all the way.
Into the microscopic enormity.
Love it now. Love it here. As it is.
Love the tight ache of your jaw. Love the weariness of your soul. Love the anger and the constant gnaw of your mind, all here in some effort to love you, to keep you safe.
Love this. Be grateful.
Foibles, flaws, failings, foolishness, egocentric confusion, all kinds of confusion. All the trying to understand, to grasp, to hold, to mould. Love these futile attempts to control, to plan, to achieve.
Love the lostness.
Being lost has to happen.
It’s inevitable.
Being found might happen, or it might not.
For now, love the lostness.
When you’re lost … everything is new, fresh, unfamiliar, confusing.
Nothing makes sense and this is beautiful.
Problematic, perhaps. But beautiful.
You’re tumbled and thrown and you see you’ve always been lost and most everyone else is, too, even if they don’t know it.
Love being lost. Love it all the way through, as best you can.
In your particular, singular way.
Get lost in this life.
Lose yourself in the living.